


Wash your hands and gargle

by Calilco



Category: One Piece
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 14:12:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13148343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calilco/pseuds/Calilco
Summary: (In this fic, we have a HAPPY WHITEBEARD FAMILY. Thatch is alive, Ace is alive, Old Man Whitebeard is alive. We're all happy. Yay.)Before Marco knew it, the Whitebeard Pirates had suffered a tremendous defeat.To influenza.





	Wash your hands and gargle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RenoOfTheTroika](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenoOfTheTroika/gifts).



**Wash your hands and gargle.**

 

   Marco thinks back to two days ago.

 

   Another peaceful day. The Moby Dick had stopped by the village market of a small, inconspicuous winter island to restock their rations and allow the men a chance to stretch their sea-cramped legs, though they didn't stay long. Marco had stayed opted to stay aboard, making idle small talk with his subordinates and comrades.

 

   The thirty-or-so members who had left for the village came back to the ship before nightfall, and the Whitebeard Pirates hightailed it out of the harbor and into open sea as soon as everyone was accounted for. After all, with their infamy came the unfortunate fact that they couldn't stay in one place for too long without the Marines catching their scent and hunting them down like hounds after a particularly aromatic steak.

 

   That was two days ago.

 

   It was hardly 48 hours ago that all the Whitebeard Pirates were passing booze over the dinner table like a band of wild animals, snarfing the simple bread and stew dinner with hearty thanks to the cooks of the evening. Partying with noise and broken glass like the pirates they were, no one heard the tiny sneeze in the far corner of the table from an ordinary crew member.

 

    Two. Days. Ago.

 

   Marco realized once again that the sea was a terrifying place. Trapped on a ship, even one as large as the Moby Dick, everyone breathed the same air and touched the same surfaces. There was, literally, no room for escape.

 

   So when the small sneeze from two days ago traveled from one man to the next, onto the next, then the next...

 

   Before Marco knew it, the Whitebeard Pirates had suffered a tremendous defeat.

 

   To influenza.

 

   In the beginning, it was a small handful of men that were infected, sniffling and shivering as their bodies fought against the sickness. Trying to prevent a widespread invasion, the ill were escorted to the sick bay where they were put under the ship doctor's care....

 

   But it was already too late.

 

   “Achoo!” sneezed Thatch into the crook of his elbow. Marco, a spoon of that day's lunch halfway to his mouth, happened to be the unlucky fellow sitting next to him. The zoan said nothing, but the pointed look he directed at his fellow division commander seemed to be enough to send Thatch to the doctor for a quick checkup. (“Sheesh!”)

 

   Marco finished up lunch quickly and went on to relieve Izou of guard watch in the crow's nest (who was filling in for a sick member of his division), peeking his head over the railing just in time to catch Izou at the end of a sneeze (“-SHUN!”). Marco asked a healthy member of the crew to make sure Izou was escorted to the doctor's office without any detours or smoke breaks (“I'm a grown man, I'll escort my—HACKSHUN!—self!” “... you have the weirdest sneeze.”).

 

   Later in the evening, Marco made sure both Izou and Thatch had gotten their check up (“Seriously! Who made you my mom?!” Thatch protested before dissolving into hacking coughs), he ran into Jozu on the way back to the deck and couldn't hold back his bark of laughter at the sight of the pale pink medical face mask that just barely stretched from ear to ear on the gigantic man. Coughing lightly, Jozu informed Marco that he had been feeling unnaturally chilly for the past hour now and thought it wouldn't hurt to at least get some fever reducers just in case.

 

   Grateful there was at least one person on this ship who cared about their personal health, Marco made it to the deck of the Moby Dick, the sea-salt scented wind hitting him in the face. The air was warm, signaling that they were headed towards a summer island this time (which, by words of the ship doctor, “Mm, mm, it's bad luck. Summer flus are curses, old boy. Mark my words, there will be five without their heads by the end of this week!!” “Doc, it's the flu. Not gangrene.”).

 

However, even with near half the ship out of commission thanks to this epidemic, everyone’s main priority, other than recovery, was that Whitebeard would not be affected by this outbreak. Along with the nurses who cared for him on a daily basis, the captain’s room would have to be blockaded in order to keep the contagion out.

 

As expected, Whitebeard had been unhappy with this decision (a bit of an understatement if the way he crushed a mug of ale with the force of his bare hands was any indication), but Marco had put his foot down and refused to budge on this matter. Everyone was worried for their old man, and if Whitebeard also fell ill, the drop in everyone’s morale would be dire.

 

   The ship's head navigator, wrapped up in a blanket while speaking through a stuffy nose and chattering teeth, generously offered his estimate that it would be at least three more days of sailing until they reached the next island.

 

   Until then... the Moby Dick was a viral trap with no room for escape.

 

   And by some strange twist of fortune (or misfortune), Marco went unscathed.

 

   Which left him, and the few others who were still relatively healthy, to go around and play nurse for the rest of their sorry nakama. Marco thought himself as a good-hearted guy who cared deeply for his fellow shipmates. So if it took a bit of firm loving from the Whitebeard Pirates 1st Division Commander to make sure a few unruly members got the rest they needed, Marco would be that gentle (knuckles aimed at the jaw, kick to the back of the knee, jab to the solar plexus) push back into bed.

 

   Patient number One being...

 

   “Thatch.”

 

   Senses fried from the fever between his eyes, Thatch jumped in surprise when he heard someone else in the supposedly empty kitchen and hit his head on the open cabinet door above him with a crash that made even Marco wince. After shouting a rude word at the impact, Thatch crumbled to the ground with both hands holding the top of his head. “You could knock!” the brunet hissed between his teeth, pinning Marco with a teary-eyed glare.

 

   Give no quarter, Marco's inner pirate hollered. “Or you could go back to bed,” Marco replied with a long-suffering sigh as he took in the messy hair, disheveled button up shirt, and drawstring pants most of the crew used for sleepwear. A very recent sick bay escapee, it seemed.

 

   “I will, I will,” Thatch brushed off Marco's threat easily, turning back to the kitchen cabinet he was ransacking before Marco spoke up. “Just got a little peckish, so don't mind me.” He then looked over his shoulder a disarming grin, but Marco wasn't fooled.

 

   Folding his arms over bare chest, the zoan decided to play along for just a little longer. “What are you looking for?”

 

   “Uh,” Thatch's eyes rolled up to the ceiling as he searched his shot mind, silent for a moment before answering, “... Chicken soup?”

 

   “... that's the liquor case.”

 

   Thatch, to his credit, laughed airily, like he didn't already know, but he didn't move an inch from his original spot. “So it is. Well, since I'm here, might as well—“

 

   The only thing that stopped Thatch from going any further was probably the bright blue light that suddenly erupted from behind him. With a great heaving sigh, Thatch threw up his hands into the air, showing Marco they were very void of alcohol, and said with a sulking frown, “Well, if you're gonna be a dick about it.”

 

   Marco mirrored Thatch's heavy sigh, although his was more exasperated than anything else, and he walked further into the kitchen, pulling out a chair next to one of the counters and parking himself in it with a dull thud. “I'm not trying to make you go dry forever, but doc's orders were—“

 

   “I know, I know,” Thatch cut in, following Marco's example and pulling up his own seat, sitting on it backwards with his forearms resting on the top rail on the back. “Just... tired,” he breathed out the words, dropping his head onto his folded arms. He could feel the heat from his head seeping through his clothes—he was burning up.

 

   “... if you're tired, go back to bed,” Marco replied softly, tilting his head so he could try and make out Thatch's expression—

 

   But he jolted back in surprise when the other pirate's down turned face suddenly zipped back up, and Thatch scratched at his chin, already two days worth of beard growing over his usually styled goatee. “But that's the problem, Marco! I'm tired of lying in bed! I'm tired of that dumb cooling cloth dripping all over me! I'm tired of the gross medicine the doc gives us!” And like a balloon that just lost all its hot air, Thatch deflated into himself and muttered lowly, “.... I wanna get drunk.”

 

   “It's only been two days, man. Get a hold of yourself.”

 

   After an unresponsive moment from Thatch, Marco rolled his eyes and got up onto his feet, walking over the still open cabinet (that landed a critical hit on Thatch minutes ago), he pulled out a clean glass cup from within it. The clink of the glass against the wooden counter made Thatch perk up, glassy eyes round and expectant as he watched Marco walk over to the alcohol cabinet like a happy puppy who had been promised a treat. “Marco! My friend! I knew I could... count... on... you?”

 

   Marco, defying all expectations, walked right past the alcohol cabinet and headed towards the refrigerator, opening it up and rummaging around for a moment before he pulled back with a triumphant “Ah-hah!”.

 

Thatch watched speechlessly as Marco took a clear bottle out of the fridge, not recognizing its contents at first, but his eyes narrowed to glaring slits once his mind caught on, and he stared furiously at the golden liquid Marco steadily poured into the cup and placed before him with a deceptively kind smile.

 

“Drink your juice and go to bed.”

 

“.... you’re an asshole, and I hate you.”

 

Marco grinned at Thatch’s pout, shoving the glass of apple juice into his friend’s loose hands and beginning to usher him out of the kitchen and back towards the sick bay. “Ya’ poor thing. Delirious with fever.”

 

“Stop mother henning me, you blue chicken!” Thatch hollered, only to end up bending in half as a cough took him. Marco took this opportunity to quickly and efficiently shove him into the doctor’s waiting arms (The doctor, unamused by Thatch’s escape attempt, already had a bundle of rope in one hand and a tranquilizer in the other).

 

And if Thatch, bundled up in his blanket like an unfortunate sushi roll, spent the next hour complaining about how no one was removing the glass of apple juice Marco had left on his bedside table (“Who the hell on this ship drinks goddamn  _ juice _ ! We’re pirates for god’s sake!”), it was no longer Marco’s concern.

 

Because Marco had new things to worry about.

 

“Izou.”

 

It’s been three days since they left the last island; meaning, it would be another two days before they docked at the next island.

 

With a majority of their crew mates out of commission, Marco and the few healthy members left had to use their few numbers to try and finish up all the daily duties and chores on the Moby Dick. Frankly speaking, doing what took the whole of Moby Dick's crew to accomplish with less than a third of that number was difficult.

 

So as to not create anymore patients in the already overflowing sickbay, Marco offered to take night watch duty in the crow’s nest. The others tried to talk him out of it, offering to switch with him midway, but after Marco made the argument that perhaps it was his zoan abilities as a phoenix keeping him from falling ill, making him the least likely to keel over, the discussion ended with that, and the other pirates reluctantly made their way to bed to get a good night’s sleep once the sun set.

 

Marco, as per their agreement, climbed up the ladder to the crow’s nest to take watch, when he happened upon Izou, who was supposed to be in bed with fever.

 

“Good evening,” Izou said cooly, his pipe hanging loosely in his mouth. It was lit and Marco could smell the sweet scent of tobacco from where he stood. The only indication that Izou was not his usual self was his disheveled hair and unpainted lips.

 

Marco, struck with a sense of deja vu, crossed his arms and let out a sigh. “You’re supposed to be in bed.”

 

Izou blew out a puff of smoke, gaze pointed in the direction of the never ending sea. 

 

The image he painted would have struck inspiration into the hearts of artists. Izou’s sharp profile and pale skin accentuated by the moon’s white light while the dark waves of the the calm ocean made a sharp contrast to the light pink of his kimono draped loosely on his well-built frame. 

 

“HACKSHUN!!”

 

But then Izou sneezed, sending spit and snot flying haphazardly in every direction.

 

“Okay, see? That’s how you get other people sick,” Marco said as he took a step back as to not get any on his feet.

 

“Hmph,” Izou sniffed, uncaringly wiping his nose with the end of his kimono sleeve. “If an individual on this ship does not have the mindset and physical ability to  _ deal with it _ , they do not deserve to be called a Whitebeard Pirate.”

 

“Not how that works,” Marco replied with a roll of his eyes. “And as far as I can tell, you’re not really dealing with it all too well yourself.”

 

Izou shot up to his feet in an outrage. “How dare you!” he hissed, teeth all gnashed together, making the smoking end of his pipe shoot upwards towards his hairline. “I’ll have you know, I have traveled through these halls and up these ladders with my own two hands and feet, without assistance. My eyes see into the night just as easily as if the sun were in the sky, and if a fool were to call an attack upon these decks, I shall unleash a fury and madness unlike that which you have seen the likes of!”

 

And as to demonstrate that exact madness, Izou threw his hands out and laughed at the top of his lungs, pipe falling to the ground with a quiet thunk as it dropped from his lips.

 

Marco slapped a palm over his face, exhaustion and irritation creeping up on him.

 

So if anyone blamed him for not catching Izou when the 16th division commander suddenly fell face-first into a dead faint onto the ground, Marco would be more than happy to let them deal with this mess.

 

Unfortunately there was no one other than the two of them in the crow’s nest, and Izou twitched on the ground like a weak fish on land. Marco shook his head as he approached the prone Izou and knelt down next to him. “I can’t tell who’s worse, you or Thatch.”

 

“Thatch,” Izou replied at once, though his voice was croaky and muffled. Shaky fingers reached for the fallen pipe, but before it could grab it, Marco quickly snatched it up.

 

Ignoring Izou’s groan of protest, Marco smashed out the fire in the ashes with his finger and safely tucked the pipe into the sash tied around his hips. “I’ll be confiscating this. You can come get it once the doc give you  _ actual _ leave from the sickbay.”

 

“You are not my mother,” Izou grumbled. “If I choose to leave my bed for a smoke, who are you to tell me otherwise?”

 

“Your shipmate,” Marco answered without hesitation, eyes softening as he helped Izou sit up, leaning him against the wooden railing. Even through the soft cloth of Izou’s clothes, Marco could feel that even now he was burning up. “And your friend.”

 

Marco’s words quieted Izou, who looked down at his feet. His eyes were unfocused, but he seemed to be coherent enough to reply, “... I will need assistance in climbing back down.”

 

“Sure,” Marco said with a huff of amusement. Blue fire began to engulf him, signaling Marco’s transformation from human to phoenix. The easiest way down for the both of them would be to carry Izou on his back in this form, rather than lug him back down the ladder like a baby koala.  “Better than finding your dead body on the deck the next morning.” 

 

“I’ll have you know!” Izou protested loudly, even as he draped himself precariously between Marco’s wings. “A fall like that would not do me in! Who do you think I am?! I--HACKSHUN!!”

 

“Okay. For real. Cover your mouth next time, seriously.”

 

They safely reached the deck of the Moby Dick without fuss, Izou having quieted down after his tremendous sneeze. 

 

Unlike the time with Thatch, the doctor seemed to realize it would be unlikely that Izou would plan another getaway anytime soon, so they gently escorted him back into bed, getting some medicine and food in him for a speedy recovery.

 

“I will be expecting my pipe back soon, Marco,” Izou said groggily at Marco’s departing back.

 

Marco looked back at Izou’s bedridden form and wordlessly pat his sash, feeling the outline of Izou’s thin pipe through the cloth, before ducking out of the sickbay. 

 

He still had night watch, after all.

 

And with Izou sent to bed, the night went by relatively smoothly without any incidents or troubles.

 

Even after the sun came up, Marco had a peaceful day (if he ignored all the coughing, sneezing, and general complaining from  _ everyone _ ).

 

With the more unruly members of the crew properly tucked in (with rope and, sometimes, a little bit of hard lovin’), Marco’s unofficial job of ushering sickbay runaways back in was over.

 

Instead, he was stuck playing nurse.

 

“Ace.”

 

All the division commanders were given their own quarters on the ship. Thatch and Izou were stuck in the infirmary due to bad behavior, but Ace who had quietly fallen ill, marched himself to bed and slept like the dead since then was allowed to stay in his room. 

 

When Marco poked his head into Ace’s room, he found that it was dark and quiet, only the sound of Ace’s heavy breathing an evidence that the man was still alive. 

 

Slowly, as to not cause too much noise, Marco walked into the dark room, both hands occupied with the silver tray he was carrying. He put the tray onto the table at Ace’s bedside, the silverware lightly clinking together at the soft impact. 

 

“Ace,” Marco called again, putting a hand over his dark brows and feeling the fever going still going strong.

 

Before Marco, other members of the crew had been making sure Ace was fed and breathing, but due to circumstances, they were no longer able to do it, making Marco take their place.

 

Circumstances being the sweltering temperature in the room.

 

With Ace’s Flame Flame Fruit mixed with the fever, it seemed Ace’s control over his own powers went haywire. The air around him heated to a degree that it caused a heat haze to occur indoors, and after a particularly strong sneeze or cough, Ace developed a habit of mistakenly lighting his sheets on fire.

 

On any other day, the very idea of Ace starting a fire with a sneeze would be hilarious, but mixed in with the fact that the man was very near delirious with his fever and his brain wasn’t quite up to his regular performing standards, things got a little dangerous for the regular crew.

 

But even worse than all those fault combined…

 

After some prodding from Marco, Ace groggily opened his eyes and looked up at Marco face hovering over him. Marco returned Ace’s blank stare with a sharp gaze, unsure if Ace was really awake at all (as the man could fall asleep on his feet even on good days).

 

But his concerns were unfounded as in the next moment Ace’s face broke out into a wide grin and he joyfully said, “Luffy!”

 

Yes.

 

This problem.

 

“Your kid brother isn’t here, Ace. Can you sit up? Need to get food in you before you take your meds,” Marco replied nonchalantly, taking a match from the matchbox next to an oil lamp on the table and lighting it. A warm, orange glow lit up the room, making it easier for Marco to see Ace’s face and vice-versa. 

 

Not that it helped.

 

“Luffy, get your big brother something to drink. Dunno why, but I’m  _ parched _ ,” Ace mumbled sleepily, though the smile still remained on his lips. He slowly pushed himself up and leaned back on the headboard of his bed, showing Marco that Ace had at least heard him.

 

Marco heaved a sigh but grabbed a pitcher of water he brought on the tray and poured it out into a glass. “Yeah, yeah.”

 

All the other crew members who dealt with Ace had commented on it. How Ace had mistaken each and every one of them for his little brother, making him smile and fawn at them, which had subsequently grossed them out, leaving Marco to suffer through it now.

 

After quenching his thirst, Ace leaned back comfortably and just stared at Marco with the same fond smile stretched over his face, eyes all soft and goo-goo like he was looking at particularly cute puppy. It sent goosebumps up Marco’s arm, and he had to swallow down the overwhelming need to vomit.

 

Suddenly, Ace burst out laughing, surprising Marco who had been busily preparing the bowl of soup he brought along enough for him to drop the spoon in his hand. Cursing, Marco bent to pick it up and when he came back up, he was met with a hot hand on the top of his head.

 

“Luffy, do you remember that time? At Dadan’s place?” Ace began, still patting Marco’s head, completely unaware of how still the other man had gotten. Ace continued on with his nostalgic storytime, but it went through one ear and out the other for Marco.

 

Ace was never a “private person”. Sure, like everyone, he had a few things he never talked about, but his little brother was not one of those things. Every person on this ship knew about the existence of Ace’s little brother, along with the fact that Ace seemed to dote on him to an almost excessive degree.

 

He wasn’t overprotective or controlling, more than happy to let his little brother do what he wants, but he was so goddamn proud of that same brother and for all that he didn’t like to talk about his past, he wouldn’t shut up about his brother most days.

 

So Marco had heard this story before, albeit, he wasn’t being pat on the head like an animal at the time.

 

Speaking of which.

 

“Really man, get a hold of yourself!” Marco snapped, pushing the hand away with the spoon he retrieved off the floor.

 

Ace’s wide-eyed, wounded expression made Marco falter a little, but he steeled himself and promptly stuck the soup and a loaf of bread into Ace’s hands, dropping the spoon into the bowl. It had been on the floor, but Ace had also touched his hair. An eye for an eye, a dirty spoon for a head pat, Marco’s inner pirate cheered gleefully.

 

“Luffy…” Ace said with shock lined in his voice; he wasn’t even looking at his food. “Is this… your rebellious stage?”

 

“Just eat your food so I can leave.”

 

Ace seemed to finally realize he now held a bowl of soup in his hands. Without further ado, he began to shovel it into his mouth. It seemed that not even illness could stop his monstrous appetite. 

 

And though a full mouth quieted Ace down for a moment, it had not fixed the source of Marco’s growing headache..

 

Dejavu and annoyance struck Marco when Ace laughed again without prompt, spraying bit of potato and leek over himself and Marco, who had been standing at his bedside. Wordlessly wiping himself off, Marco wished he was back with Thatch instead at the moment.

 

“Luffy. Luffy. Do you remember? At the hideout? Remember that?” Ace said through his sniggers, completely missing Marco’s dead-eyed stare.

 

“Yeah, sure,” Marco replied, giving up the fight and removing the now empty bowl of soup from Ace’s hands and replacing it with two white tablets and a glass of water. “Now swallow that, big bro and get better before I strangle you.”

 

Ace took one look at the medicine in his hand and obediently swallowed them whole, washing it down with water. Seeing that his job was now done, Marco helped Ace lay back down, ignoring his drawling, nonsensical calls of “Luffy… Luuuuffyyy…”.

 

“Go back to sleep. If you’re not better by tomorrow, I might just throw you overboard, man,” Marco joked (or, at least, it was half a joke).

 

Gathering up the empty bowl and cup, Marco picked up the tray he came in with and made his way to the door after blowing out the light in the lamp. The room fell dark once more, still sweltering.

 

When Marco was at the threshold, one foot stepping out into the hallway, Ace called to him in that same mistaken name. “Luffy.”

 

With a small sigh, Marco looked back at Ace, seeing the light from outside reflecting off his eyes in the dark room. He waited for Ace to speak.

 

After a pause, Ace smiled once more, not the same smile he would give his little brother, but one that Marco was familiar with. Lazy, but bright and a little mischievous. “Thanks,” he said. “You’re a good brother.”

 

Marco’s grip on the tray tightened, bending the soft silver with his fingers. Ace didn’t notice as he was already drifting off to sleep. Quiet snores sounded in the room, and Marco took it as a sign to step out of the room completely and gently closed the door behind him.

 

The hallway was empty, so no one saw how Marco just stood there, staring at nothing for the longest time before he barked a laugh and shook his head.

 

“What a buncha troublesome brothers I have,” he said to himself with a shake of his head and walked down the hall towards the kitchen, his steps lighter than it had been these past three days.

 

Tomorrow they reached their next island. Until then, he could stand to watch over his family for a little longer.

 

* * *

 

 

Miraculously, the summer island they stopped at didn’t have an established town or village, but was a little known pilgrimage stop for more adventurous medical professionals, overflowing with herbs and fruits known for their medicinal properties. 

 

Pirate or no, the small number of doctors who were there at the time, took it upon themselves to pick up their stethoscopes and white coat and cure the ailing White Beard Pirates. 

 

The gentle warmth of their stop, plus the effects of the medicine made from the vegetation in the area worked wonders on the flu, and soon enough, Marco was seeing bedridden men get back onto their feet, no longer coughing or sneezing all over the place. 

 

Thatch was one the first ones to completely recover. 

 

Though Marco wouldn’t have minded if he had stayed in bed a little longer; it would have at least curbed the complaints he got from the man regarding his bedside manner. Thatch did, however, shut right up after Marco filled a wooden tankard full of beer and slammed it down in front of him.

 

Having the other just recovered crewmates stumbling in like a pack of zombies at the scent of alcohol was an unwelcome addition, and Marco hightailed it out of the kitchen just in time to escape the ship doctor’s ear blistering scoldings about recovery time and interventions.

 

In the mid of his escape, he nearly ran into Izou, who had stopped sneezing and was given leave of the sickbay (though he was told to take it easy for the next few days, which had Izou huffing and puffing. In Marco’s opinion, a few more days in the sickbay probably wouldn’t have hurt this guy either).

 

Izou looked unaffected despite almost having been bowled over by Marco, and, at the sight of him, promptly stuck out a hand, palm facing upwards and waiting expectantly without a word.

 

There was only one thing Marco had that Izou wanted. Against his better judgement, Marco pulled the thin pipe out from where he had it stored and plopped it into Izou’s waiting hand. “I wouldn’t smoke yet,” Marco said, knowing full well that Izou might just completely ignore him, “You’re still coughing last I heard.”

 

To Marco’s surprise, Izou slipped the pipe into the sleeve of his top, which was not its usual resting spot, and regarded him with a haughty expression, as if daring him to comment any further. “I am a grown man, Marco. I can take care of myself.”

 

“That’s more than I can say for Thatch.”

 

Izou let out a laugh. His mouth was still unpainted, and his hair was bedraggled, but he looking more like himself than before. “Without a doubt.”

 

As the days passed, Moby Dick’s infirmary released more and more patients, until it was completely barren and the ship’s deck was crowded by loud, rambunctious pirates all looking to party off their pent up energy and celebrate their returned good health. 

 

Whitebeard was also given leave of his quarters, the virus no longer a concern. His rumbling laughter shook the floorboards of the ship’s deck and everyone greeted him with such a cheer, as if it had been years since they last saw him instead of the three short days.

 

They spent a full week harbored at this island, and when the very last patient left his bed, everyone decided it was time to move on. 

 

With indecipherable clamoring and several opened kegs of beer, they bid the summer island and the good-hearted doctors upon it a boisterous goodbye, which was returned by a more subdued, yet no less enthusiastic farewell from the doctors.

 

The Moby Dick departed into the open seas once more, her crew and cargo throwing a feast upon her back just as they had before.

 

Marco sat near the railing, his smile resting against the mouth of his glass mug, filled to the brim with cold, frothy beer. He watched the ongoing banquet with a sense of comfort and familiarity, feeling the stress he didn’t even realize he had pent up melting away from him like ice under the sun.

 

“You look like you’re enjoying yourself.”

 

Marco looked up at the sound of a voice overhead. Ace stood next to him, a tankard of his own in one hand and a plate of tonight’s dinner in the other. “How many helpings you get this time?” Marco asked as Ace took a seat next to him, already stuffing his face.

 

“Not enough,” Ace bemoaned through a mouthful. “I could eat a seacow. I’ve only had soup for  _ days _ .”

 

“You’ve also been delirious for those days,” Marco said with a teasing grin. Everyone who nursed Ace had already prodded him to hell and back about being mistaken for his little brother. Ace took it well enough (that is to say, he set a few heads on fire, but made no lasting damage), though he still looked sheepish when Marco brought it up.

 

“Vista might have shoved some of the blankets I burned in my face already,” Ace took a subdued sip of his beer. “And I might have talked a lot about Luffy.”

 

“No more than usual,” Marco replied. “You brother complex.”

 

“Am not!” Ace vehemently denied, looking more alive than he did this past week. His loud objection garnered some attention from the others who began to flock towards them with easy grins and alcohol on their breaths. Ace fended off their poking and pestering with an annoyed scowl, though they could all catch the exasperated fondness underneath. Just that sight alone comforted Marco.

 

Everything was falling back into place, back to normal. As normal as it could on the Grand Line at least.

 

“Gurarara! Drink, you scoundrels! Alcohol is the best medicine!” Whitebeard’s hearty voice boomed over them like thunder and the whole ship gave a jubilant hurrah to it. 

 

Marco watched the ship doctor’s futile, and half-intoxicated warnings about the consequences of alcohol poisoning before downing a gulp of his own beer. Thatch, surrounded by his eager nakama, opened up a new keg, spilling the contents into waiting mugs. At the opposite side, Izou quietly chatted with Jozu, as they clicked together their small saucers of sake. He loosely held his pipe between his lips, the end of it lit and smoking. 

 

A soft chuckle escaped Marco. This was the Whitebeard Pirates that he knew. 

 

He raised his glass at the sight before him in toast. “To good health,” he said, voice drowned out by the noise of celebration all around him.

 

Marco brought his glass to his lips for his first drink of the night.

 

“ACHOO!”

 

The noise died at the sound.

 

Marco rubbed his nose, sniffling lightly. The force of his sneeze made him slosh a bit of his drink on himself. He looked up, wanting to ask for a towel, only to see all eyes locked on him, shock and horror in each gaze. It took a moment for him to understand just what had happened.

 

“... .... well, shit.”

 

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> The pipe Izou uses is a kiseru. Not the type English gentlemen use in period movies.   
> I only really wrote Izou because I love him (his face). I have no idea what his character’s really like.
> 
> Happy birfday, Reno. (i know it’s christmas or whatever but shut up i love ya)


End file.
